So Kiddo, Do I Get A Kiss Then?
by a girl with a thousand ships
Summary: It started out as a simple demon hunt, but turned into something more complicated when said hunt turned up something on the other end of the supernatural spectrum. An archangel. Or, to be more exact, a psychologically broken, thought-to-be-dead, tortured archangel. Because things were never just simple for Team Free Will. Sabriel, Destiel and other pairings.
1. Bring Me To Life

Castiel tilted his head, eyes fixed on the run-down factory ahead. Apparently, somewhere behind those walls, was a nest of demons, and he was there to use his "angel mojo", as Dean had put it, if there were more than the Winchesters could handle. He puffed out a breath, distracted momentarily as it condensed before him, and turned his charge, frowning slightly. It felt like there was a lump in his throat, something he decided to question Dean about later. Emotions, though he'd grown used to them, were still rather foreign to him.

"You good, Cas?" The angel simply nodded, observing the hunter's movements as he slid Ruby's knife into his pants. Beside him, Sam loaded a shotgun, flashlight in between his teeth. "Sam?" The younger brother grunted in response, shutting the boot and pulling the torch out of his mouth. Castiel simply watched, waiting until the hunters brushed passed him to follow.

He took the time to look around, admire what surrounded him. From the grass that sprouted in small clusters, to the sky, each star making its own mark, telling its own life story, Castiel couldn't deny the beauty of his Father's creations, and whenever he could, he would simply look, experience and feel just what a miracle felt like. Even the building ahead was its own special entity in Castiel's eyes, from the stories that had been told in there once, to the moss that climbed the walls. It was a home in its own little way.

The closer they got though, the less it felt like a home, and the more it felt... wrong. It had started with a simple worry, which he ignored - apparently worry wasn't uncommon - then grew, until his feathers ruffled at most everything, and his skin prickled.

It was only when Dean nudged the angel's shoulder that Castiel realised he'd lost focus, 'drifted off into his own little world', so to say. Sam was scrawling out a rough Devil's Trap at the entrance, his intentions clear. Castiel turned back to his charge, straight-faced and unblinking, to be met with a quirked eyebrow.

"Mind sharing what's on your mind, Cas?" Dean's lip tightened into a grimace as Castiel stared at him, forgetting to blink again. No matter how long he'd known the angel, each time he forgot to blink, the hunter found it rather unnerving.

"We don't split up in here. I believe something is not right here." He watched as the older hunter opened his mouth to protest, before realising that arguing with Castiel of all beings would be a pointless waste of time. The angel was impossible to sway, an just as difficult to explain things to.

"What exactly do you mean, Cas?" Sam stood up, tossing the chalk to the side as Castiel squinted at him, puzzled as to how his statement wasn't self-explanatory.

"I mean something is wrong here." Dean crudely supressed a snort, simply heightening the angel's confusion. Sam jabbed him in the ribs, glaring at his brother as Castiel simply glanced between them.

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

"Cas, what I think Sam meant was why is something not right?" It was Sam's turn to laugh under his breath, poorly disguising it as a cough.

"The air is off. I can feel it. Something is definitely not right." Dean furrowed his brow, opening and closing his mouth, trying to find a retort which refused to come to mind. Sam pursed his lips slightly, his grip on the shotgun tightening slightly.

"The air is off? Cas, not that I don't trust your sixth sense or anything, but there were all the demonic omens. ALL of them. What else could it possibly be?" Sam questioned.

Castiel paused. "Exactly."

"See, it's - wait, what?"

"All the demonic omens. Not one, or two, but all. Doesn't that strike you as a little... odd?" A wave of realisation hit the Winchesters then, and the cockiness fell from Dean's face, badly disguised concern taking its place.

"Shit."

"Precisely."

Sam lifted his shotgun up, resting the barrel against the flashlight. "Look, whatever's in there, demon or not, is not coming out alive. That thing, or those things, have already slaughtered god knows how many. We can't just chicken out." Dean nodded in response, grunting slightly, and Castiel did what he was best at: watching.

"You ready then?" Sam dipped his head ever so slightly, gun ready, flashlight poised, as Dean worked on the lock, twisting the pick ever so slightly until a familiar click sounded. One glance at the angel and the younger hunter assured him, and he pushed the door open, one hand instinctively resting on the hilt of Ruby's knife. Each step was slow, careful, and Sam mimicked his brother's movements.

Castiel followed behind the Winchesters, a little less cautious with his strides. The bite of the air intensified inside the factory, sending a chill down his spine. The sensation felt familiar, and it irritated - another emotion he could live without - him greatly, not being able to place it. It wasn't just something he thought he knew, Castiel was more than certain he knew what it was.

A few steps later and it clicked.

Thunder crackled outside in response to the angel as he growled, crouching primitively in front of the hunters, his blade sliding between his fingers until the weapon was fully emerged. He flipped it over in his palm, poised to stab or slash should it be necessary, and swept the immediate vicinity, spiritually and visually. His wings were unfolded to their full span, an intimidation tactic he'd learnt, his fingers flexing around the angel blade.

"What the hell, Cas!" Castiel glanced over his shoulder at the older hunter, recoiling his wings slightly despite Dean not being able to see them. He twisted round to Sam, who looked equal parts confused, curious and worried, then forward again, determined not to miss anything.

"There's an angel here." Dean groaned, the whole angels fiasco growing irritating to him. Last time he checked, angels were meant to be nice, fluffy things, not walking, talking dicks, some of which had a desire for murder.

"That's just fucking fantastic. Who doesn't love a holy psychopath?" Dean growled, "Guess we best fin it before it finds us." Castiel paused a moment, then nodded, his grip loosening slightly on the angel blade. He folded his wings back for the time being, grey feathers pressing feathers his neck.

"I believe it already knows we're here. Surprise is out of the question. I felt its grace, it will have felt me too." Sam stood there, mulling the situation over whilst his brother acted melodramatic, groaning and sighing. He smiled a little as Dean tried to lead the way, but Castiel pushed him back, shifting into over-protective angel mode. And yet he mad sure Dean was always close to him. A little too close for there to be nothing between them. Sam decided to do the smart thing and made sure to steer clear of the pair so he didn't interfere with the sexual frustration between the angel and his brother. They'd figure it out eventually. Hopefully.

Castiel flew - pun intended - down the hallways, his feet barely touching the ground , but never too fast for Sam and Dean to match. There was something empowering about it. Whether it was the way his trench coat billowed out around him, or that physically he was the smallest of them, and yet he led the way, Castiel didn't know. But it was certainly empowering.

Castiel followed the sensation, his "angel radar", shivering as it intensified, worrying him and exciting him equally. Not that his face would ever reflect that though. Castiel knew that it was more than likely another angel who wanted him, or one of the boys, dead. As far as he knew, that summed up most every angel right now. But then, then there was always the chance that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't but assaulted on sight. That maybe it was someone who could help. And then Castiel realised he was feeling hope. He'd never really liked hope - it was a cruel, misleading emotion.

They came to one door which hadn't stood out to either of the brothers, and yet Castiel stood still in front of it, and pressed a finger to his lips. Dean nodded and pulled Ruby's knife out of his trousers, Sam gripping the shotgun with both hands, ready to fire if needed. Cas' fingers flexed around the blade, and with a deep breath, he twisted his other hand, the lock clicking and the door swinging open. Castiel braced himself, expecting some half-minded angel lunatic to charge at him, angel blade raised high.

Now he'd wished that was what he'd been confronted with.

To Sam and Dean, they saw a man, slouched forward but held upright by some invisible force, surrounded by a ring of what they presumed to be holy fire. His head was slumped forward, hands cuffed behind his back, a chain around his the neck, the end just outside the holy fire. His hair was matted with blood and dirt, his chest bare, gashes long and short, deep and shallow decorating it, and his eyes squeezed shut, his whole face contorted in pain.

To Castiel, however, saw what their human eyes couldn't pick up on. To the angel, it was a torture chamber of the worst degree. He saw wings charred and stained beyond recognition, broken and torn, stab wounds piercing through them, leaving the aftermath only an angel blade would produce. It wasn't just one pair, or two, but more than Cas cared to count, each as broken and bloodied as the next. And the largest pair were the worst. Feathers had been ripped from them, the membrane of the wing pierced as they were chained to the ceiling with clamps far too tight for comfort, cracked bones and dried blood around each of the numerous clamps, forcing the angel to stay upright. The brackets were etched with Enochian symbols, pulling the wings, larger than any Castiel remembered, outside of the holy fire, the feathers on the end burnt black.

Castiel took a deep breath and tentatively stepped forward, his stomach twisted in revulsion. His hand was outstretched, desiring to run through the damaged feathers, offer some form of comfort to the tortured angel. The fire was the only barrier between them, the only thing stopping him. A quick glance upwards, and an idea began to form in his head. Castiel closed his eyes, angel blade dropping to the floor as he inhaled deep through his nostrils. Several pipes ran overhead, and Castiel hoped, prayed even, that water ran through one of them.

He gritted his teeth, hand twisting, pipes creaking. Castiel's face contorted, and the first pipe cracked under the pressure of his grace, setting off what seemed like a chain reaction as more pipes followed suit. He hissed as cold water hit him, his black hair clinging to his forehead, but it doused the majority of the flames, breaking the ring. His eyes fell onto the clamps, and his lips pulled back a little in disgust.

"Support his weight. Now." The room rumbled slightly, and another thunder crack sounded in the distance. Neither hunter hesitated in lifting the angel up, carrying his weight. Partially because their angel wasn't to be spoken against when elements of his true voice broke through.

Castiel grimaced, already aware he'd over exerted himself, beyond what an angel cut off from Heaven should. But he wasn't prepared to stop. This grace, this angel's grace felt familiar, comforting even, and good or bad, he wasn't prepared to leave any brother or sister in such a state. Though some of his siblings may not be better than that, he was, and he prided himself on that.

His hand twisted, squeezing into a fist, and one by one, the brackets snapped in half, leaving shattered bone and torn wing in their place. Each bracket that snapped, the angel became heavier, leaving the two hunters to imagine the wingspan of the angel. Castiel felt blood running over his top lip as the last clamp cracked apart, and he fell to his knees, his head pounding from the strain. A groan of pain slipped through clenched teeth as he pushed his grace just that bit further, the cuffs dropping to the ground with a satisfying clatter. Castiel dropped completely, his weight too much to support.

"Cas?" Dean called out, worry creasing his features as he glanced between the angels. "Castiel?!"

"Dean," Sam nudged his brother, nodding in Castiel's direction. "Go check he's alright. Help him."

"But, Sa-"

"Dude, I've got him, don't worry. Just go help Cas, that's gonna take a toll on him." Dean glanced between Sam and the unconscious angel in his arms, still slumped forward, torn. "Dean, Cas." The elder Winchester glanced once more, biting his lip slightly, before moving to help Castiel to his feet again.

Sam repositioned himself, still supporting the weight of the, well, rather short angel, hooking an arm under his knees, tossing the shotgun aside and wrapping his other arm around the angel's shoulders, pulling him into his chest. Definitely short. He pushed the hair aside from the angel's face, his finger lingering a moment longer than necessary. Dean was hobbling towards him with Castiel, now semi-conscious, before glancing back at the man in his arms, eyelids slowly parting. They flitted around, terrified, until they met with Sam, who was staring, lips parted and his own eyes widened, torn between shock and surprise (and if he was honest, a considerable amount of concern as well).

"Shit!" he exclaimed, catching his brother's and Castiel's attention. "Gabriel?!"


	2. Heavy In Your Arms

Dean visibly clenched his teeth at the name, whilst Castiel's head rose a little. So many questions ran through Sam's head - why, how and what the hell being a few to name – but those could be asked later. Right now, in his arms, was an archangel who'd he thought dead, and might well end up that way again soon.

Sam's gaze lingered on Gabriel's chest a moment longer than he should have; concerned by the way it rose and fell in short intervals, erratic and completely uncalculated. Then again, there wasn't much about Gabriel that didn't worry him at the moment.

He hadn't even noticed as his feet carried him out of the damned room, running down the corridors, hadn't noticed until the cold air hit him, pushing the loose strands of hair out of his face. He wasn't sure why he was running either, whether he was running from something or to something, or just running, because that's what you were meant to do when something felt urgent, right?

It was in his moment of hesitation that Cas and Dean, well, Dean holding Cas caught up. Apparently, the elder hunter had decided Castiel couldn't move fast enough in his previous state, hobbling along, and now held him in a bridal position, rather similar to how Sam held Gabriel. He rolled his eyes at how oblivious Dean and Castiel really were, despite the fact that Dean was practically pressing the angel haunts himself. Sam never realised he was being a hypocrite.

"What?" Dean protested, "You hold your angel how you want, and I'll hold mine how I want!" Had it been any other time, Sam would've commented on Dean's use of a possessive pronoun when referring to Castiel, which would've resulted in Dean blushing slightly, trying - and failing - to correct himself, and Castiel cocking his head to the side, an action he appeared to use in conjunction with most any emotion he felt. But right now, it wasn't any other time.

"Where do we even go?! I have no idea how to care for an angel, much less an archangel!" Cas looked between the Winchesters rather curiously, with a 'You're like a stupid puppy face. You're incredibly adorable, and yet you don't seem to be able to understand anything or think for yourself' look.

"Somewhere… safe… Away from… All danger…" Castiel forced out between strained breaths. It was only a recent thing, this irritating necessity known as breathing. Cas knew it was just another marker on his way to being a fully-fledged fallen angel. Not the most exciting of prospects, if he was honest.

Sam turned to Dean, and if Castiel hadn't have known better, he would've said they were communicating telepathically, as all it took was a look and Dean nodded, hauling the angel off into the Impala and dumping him into the front passenger seat.

* * *

"Do ya idjits even know what time of the morning it is?" Bobby groaned into the phone, glancing over at his clock which read just past eleven. At night. "This better be good." He rubbed his eyes and yawned, preparing himself for whatever half-assed excuse the boys could throw at him. Not that he wasn't grateful to hear from them, he cared about them like sons, but eleven at night. Was it too much to ask for them to call at a normal time, when he wasn't trying to sleep?

"We need somewhere safe to crash, Bobby, and, uh, we were wondering, if you'd have us for a bit, if you got the space." Bobby narrowed his eyes as Dean stumbled slightly with his words. He hadn't managed to survive in the hunting business this long for no reason; he knew when something was up, or more specifically, something was being withheld from him.

"Who exactly is 'we', boy?"

He heard someone, probably Dean, shouting Sam, and some muttering in the background, until finally: "Hey, Bobby."

"So, who is 'we'?" There was a brief pause and Bobby rolled his eyes, deciding that the Winchesters were just as hard to get information off as demons were, John Winchester included.

"Uh, you know, me, Dean, Cas and some company…" It came across as more of a question than a statement, Sam's voice rising towards the end, and Bobby could see Sam rubbing the back of his neck as he spoke, something the kid did when he didn't want to tell someone something.

"You ain't allowed in until you tell me what you're hiding, boy." He heard a groan over the line, and sighed.

"You remember a while back, the Trickster case, when you helped us? Well, um, long story short, the Trickster we met, he was actually an angel. Well, not quite an angel, an archangel. And then he died, a few months back, and he appears to be dying again whilst sprawled on top of me." Sam inhaled quickly after his rushed monologue, not even sure what compelled him to talk so quickly.

"An archangel… Last ya told me they were all dicks. You sure about this?"

"I'm sure." The older hunter could've swore he heard Sam's voice tremble, but he didn't bring it up. The kid was sensitive, and he knew better than to go charging head first at his issues.

"Where are ya?"

"Worthington, Wisconsin. We're about an hour away from you, Bobby."

Bobby lowered the phone a moment, glancing downwards and cursing himself inwardly before lifting it back to his ear. "Fine. You mark my words though. You idjits are going to be the death of me."

He put the phone down before he could regret his decision, and spun the wheelchair round, determined to get the house at least slightly acceptable. One does not simply care for an archangel of the lord in a messy house.

* * *

Sam glanced at his phone before stuffing it back into his pocket, eyes finding their way to the bundle on top of him. His free hand was entangled within Gabriel's hair – purely to comfort the archangel, as he kept tossing and moaning in his unconsciousness – massaging slightly. He felt a pressure against his body where Sam guessed Gabriel's wings were, but didn't make any attempts to move out of fear it would make the archangel uncomfortable.

Castiel's breathing had evened out, and he could string together coherent sentences again, but the colour was drained from his face, and the angel was exhausted, which was rather worrying considering angel's shouldn't need sleep. It meant Cas was almost fallen now, almost human. Neither Sam nor Dean wanted to find out how that would affect the angel psychologically. One issue to tackle at a time.

Dean had kept his head forward for most of the drive, focused on the road, apart from the glances he stole at his angel. He could play the 'uncaring, tough guy' persona as much as he liked, Dean knew he wasn't fooling anyone, certainly not himself. To someone who'd simply walked past him on the street, he'd appear rather macho, but the more that someone got to know Dean, the more they'd realise he's actually the complete opposite, he's incredibly emotional, he just hides them under years of building facades.

He glanced in the rear view mirror, watching his brother tear his own t-shirt to strips to bandage up the cuts and gashes decorating Gabriel's chest, tying them with a little too much experience for someone who wasn't in the medical profession. For such large hands, Dean knows he's impossibly gentle when it comes to dressing and stitching wounds, but he's not sure even his brother's soft touch will be enough later.

Sam tried to clean what he could with the limited resources he had, dried blood still speckled across most every visible body part, like someone flicked it. It's already apparent that they can't rely on angel mojo from either Cas or Gabe, then shrugged off his own jacket, wrapping it around the smaller man, covering one torso and exposing another. His hand finds its way back into Gabriel's hair, his other hand applying pressure on the worst of the wounds.

The younger Winchester couldn't stop his eyes roaming, and his stomach twisting in response. From the broken skin caused by the chain around his neck, and used for god knows what, to the stab wounds, the gashes, the bruises and the broken bones, he knew it would be a task getting through to the archangel, and even more of a task on helping him through it, through the mental trauma. He didn't even want to imagine what Cas saw, as judging by the angel's reaction, it wasn't good. His tongue had other ideas though.

"Cas, how bad is he? I mean, like, the whole angel thing we can't see?" Castiel twisted in his seat to face Sam, glancing between his brother and the hunter.

"Is this a time where you would rather me humour you, or tell you the truth?" He asked, head tilted slightly.

"Truth please, Cas." The angel grimaced, and Sam prepared himself, not noticing his arm wrap around the archangel.

"As you would put it, very not good. The wounds were created by an angel blade: not enough to kill him, obviously, but enough to cause his grace to bleed out. That is why I felt something was wrong – Gabriel's grace had, in a way, contaminated the air. His wings are, worse than very not good. Each one is broken in some way, most having been pierced by the blade. His dominant pair of wings are worst. The brackets I released were etched with Enochian, preventing him from releasing them himself. They… they clamped around his wings, tearing through the wing membrane and breaking the bone in numerous places. The end feathers are singed black, they were pulled outside the holy fire. I can only imagine the agony that caused." Dean's foot pressed down on the accelerator, his teeth clenched. Sure, he didn't like the archangel, but no-one deserved torture. He could speak from personal experience, having been on both sides of instruments of pain. Sam gaped slightly, before shutting his mouth, his lips squeezing together, nostrils flaring.

"You mean, an angel did this? An angel tortured another angel?! How the hell was he even caught in the first place? I though archangels were Heaven's deadly weapons." Cas offered his best sympathetic smile towards Sam, who pulled Gabriel into his chest, prompting a moan to fall from his lips.

"Yes, yes, and I'm not sure myself."

Sam would've replied, had the angel in his arms not began to twist and turn. He watched, stroking a hand through Gabriel's hair and murmuring variations of "You're safe now." A breeze began to circulate the Impala, escalating into what Sam would've described as a gale, and he could only picture the cause to be Gabriel's wings thrashing in a frightened panic. He tried to hold the archangel still, who had begun to convulse and lash out, arching his back, to stop him from hurting himself, when a hand wrapped around Sam's wrist, squeezing tight.

"Hey, hey, it's alright Gabriel, you're safe. You're safe now, okay?" The archangel's breathing picked up, his chest rising and falling faster than normal. His legs kicked out, and the Messenger cried out in pain as he twisted onto his side. Sam wrapped both arms around Gabriel, pulling him up in an attempt to stop him from hurting himself again. His eyelids parted, wide and wild like a deer caught in car lights, and he tried to fight back again, until his frightened eyes caught Sam's. Gabriel's lips parted slightly, and his breathing calmed as he did nothing but look at Sam. The younger Winchester didn't move, just looked him in the eyes – damn those golden eyes – until he was certain Gabriel wasn't a threat to himself any longer. The hunter released his grip on the archangel, who didn't try to move off of the younger hunter, relaxing against him, seemingly becoming one from what Dean saw in the mirror.

"Sam?" It was just one word, one syllable, and yet it carried more emotion than Sam had ever seen expressed from Gabriel before. It wasn't false, and it wasn't exaggerated. It was pure, raw emotion. It was panicked, as if he thought Sam was simply a hallucination, a form of psychological torment, and it was hopeful, desperate for Sam to be real. Sadness laced the word, pain running rife on it, and yet not a single undertone of the playful voice Sam had grown to associate with the Archangel-turned-Trickster-turned-Archangel was there, and it was terrifying to hear the usually cheeky voice completely devoid of happiness.

"It's okay Gabriel. You're safe now. I've got you. I promise I won't let anything hurt you." Sam wasn't entirely sure where the words came from, but they felt genuine, and so he couldn't care where he'd found them. He cradled the archangel, hugging him tight, and Gabriel slumped onto his shoulder, a single tear falling down his cheek. Sam knew it wasn't his place to ask what happened, not yet, and he felt for the archangel. To see the Messenger, usually cocky and full of joy with at least one lollipop wedged between lips, as a broken mess in his arms was something Sam never wanted to see. It hurt.

"I guess this means you're my knight in shining armour," he chuckled weakly, pushing himself away so he came face to face with Sam. "So kiddo," Gabriel's voice wavered slightly on the nickname, "do I get a kiss then?" The words of the Trickster were there, but that was all, and he let himself fall against the hunter's shoulder again as hands rubbed his back. Sam knew it was going to be a long time before Gabriel was more than a shadow of who he used to be.

**A/N**

**Thank you to all the reviewers, the people who added to alert and the people who favourited. I really do appreciate it guys :) Please leave a comment/review on what you though of this chapter as well. And who else is excited for tonight? Whoo, I can't wait :)  
**


	3. Fire And Ice

**A/N**

**A massive thank you to my beta, Ashlee. I cannot thank you enough because you are super super awesome! Also, just before we start Chapter 3, I wanted to explain a few things. This story is set post Purgatory, post Winchester and Castiel reunion. There is a reason to Cas having limited grace, but if I told you what that was now, it might give major spoilers for part of the plot. Also, two questions for you guys. Question 1: would you rather have Bobby/Crowley or Bobby/Ellen and Crowley/Aziraphale OR for the awkward ones somehow incorporating all the ships in and question 2: do you want smut? Do you want this upped to an M-rated at some point in the future? If you could tell me why you want, that would be a massive massive help. Thank you, and on with the story!**

Sharp, muffled sobs hacked away at Sam's heartstrings, slaughtering rather mercilessly any hatred he'd still held against the archangel in his arms, which, in all honesty, was very little. All the hate he possessed as a result of Gabriel sacrificing himself as a means of them having a chance at escape. A rather hypocritical move, given what he attempted to teach Sam back at the Mystery Spot, all those Tuesdays ago: self-sacrifice would only end in pain.

His chin came to rest atop golden, matted locks, the smaller man's head fitting into the crook of his neck. Sam's hands rubbed circles into his back, each finger pressing slightly against bare skin, skirting around makeshift bandages. It was really just a game of trial and improvement, testing where his digits could massage without provoking a wince or whimper from Gabriel. It wasn't an enjoyable game, but one Sam forced himself to play, not for sadistic desires, but for the need to make the archangel feel safe. He knew a little too much for comfort on how torture victims were best reassured, and with gritted teeth pushed back the resurfaced memories of Hell.

The corner of his lips upturned slightly at the sight of Castiel asleep, his head resting on Dean's shoulder. The two had been through so much together, the Apocalypse, Godstiel and Purgatory, they deserved peace, and if they found it within each other, then who was Sam to object? The hardest part would be getting them to admit it to each other, as they were quite possibly the two most oblivious beings in existence. Maybe, just maybe, one day, Sam would do something completely uncharacteristic of Sam, and play the role of Cupid. How was something to ponder another day, but the idea had been planted within his mind, and now he would wait for it to blossom before cutting the metaphorical stem and cupping the rose between his hands. It would definitely be a rose, he decided, that best summed up Dean and Castiel's eventual relationship, as despite the climb to the actual rose was littered with thorns and pain, it was truly a spectacle of beauty, and an example of how incredible nature was, creating something so deadly yet captivating against the odds.

A stirring on his chest pulled Sam out of his thought trail, and he lifted his chin slightly, the smaller head tucked underneath pulling away. Two golden eyes bore into him, which, had Sam not known better, the hunter would've said they were made of honey. So sticky and intoxicating and… sweet. And yet they looked so broken, like something had literally snapped inside the angel. Water still danced at the edges of said eyes, and through the dim light, Sam could make out the red circles around them. The same Gabriel who led battalions of angels to war in the past, who dished out justice with a side of humour under 'Angel Witness Protection', all with his lips pursed around a sticky lollypop, a grin curving his mouth and a mischievous glint in his eyes was lying in his arms.

Broken.

"How long have you been back?" Sam dared ask, his voice barely more than a whisper. Gabriel looked down, his head shaking slightly.

"I don't know. Too long." Sam grimaced, the response answering his next question of"How long have you been there." His hand through all this time hadn't stopped massaging Gabriel's bare back, unconsciously tracing the lines of his ribs and spine, or where the archangel didn't flinch, at least. The Messenger relaxed into the touch, craving a friendly physical contact. He felt his grace, or what little of it he possessed at the moment, flood through his veins, pushing against the flesh of his vessel. He wanted more than anything to leave his vessel now, simply discard it in Sam's arms and flee to the safety of a long abandoned home. A place that, though he despised it with every ounce of grace in him, would always welcome him back. Hopefully. He wanted Heaven back, where his security was guaranteed, yet something kept him grounded on Earth. Something that he apparently wanted more, despite what had happened, than Heaven and family and safety. Something he couldn't pinpoint.

His fingers crept up to the space between Gabriel's shoulder blades, pressing down slightly, when something – Sam couldn't think of any other way to describe it – washed over him, leaving him wide-eyed. It was a bit like being electrocuted, but completely and utterly unlike it. It felt warm and thrilling, filling him with God knows what: hopefully God did know what, otherwise it would be rather worrying.

Oh Lord, it was so sweet and intoxicating, and so very blissful, pushing out every stress knot in his muscles, every worry plaguing his mind. It was wonderful. "I'm sorry!" Sam heard, in a raspy voice he couldn't identify nor did he want to in this sudden, idyllic euphoria. "Oh dad, I'm so sorry!"

The younger hunter blinked as everything flooded back to him – the memories, his emotions, the worries – and grinned reassuringly at the angel. "Hey, hey, it's alright! That was your grace, right? That feeling?" Gabriel nodded slightly, his lips tightening. "It was, well, I don't even know how to explain it. I'm not sure words do it justice, Gabriel. That's how incredible it was." His grin had turned into a sympathetic smile, yet it seemed to take no effect on the Trickster. Dean mumbled something under his breath along the lines of "Get a room," to which Sam rolled his eyes and ignored, giving it a single thought about how hypocritical Dean was.

Gabriel shook his head slightly, eyes falling down towards the floor. "I'm a pathetic excuse for an angel. I can't even control my own grace anymore, Sam." The 'anymore' tacked on to the end of the sentence made something inside Sam burn, and a low growl passed through his lips, accompanied by a scowl. Whatever had happened to reduce a previously egotistical man to a self-conscious wreck was something that sent a chill up the hunter's spine each time he allowed his mind to stray on the topic. He wasn't sure he even wanted to know, and Castiel's horrified reaction played over in his mind, concreting his fears. He glanced around for something, anything to pull the conversation in a more positive direction. Maybe he couldn't help properly, not yet, but one thing Sam could do was distract.

"It's been almost three years, Gabe. I'm sure you're dying to know how us three mutton heads have been almost breaking the world." The archangel snorted weakly, but Sam could see the unspoken words in his you.

"Do tell, kiddo. I haven't heard a good story in a while." Gabriel pushed himself off of the hunter, wincing as the bandages pulled. A small squeak sounded about the car as he tried to reposition his wings, clipping one off the roof of the Impala. As he gritted his teeth, pain rushing through the membrane and bone, he twisted, trying to find a comfortable position, completely forgetting about the wing resting behind Sam, which ended up hitting the younger hunter around the back of the head. Gabriel groaned, biting his teeth together. "Sorry," he mumbled, settling with wings sprawled most everywhere. Had he the grace, he would've simply dematerializedthem, like normal, but that wasn't an option, for numerous reasons, and with most all of them being broken, having them materializedwas a pain in more than one way.

Sam chuckled slightly, straining mentally and physically to lighten the atmosphere. As Cas had pointed out a while back, it was in his personality to be troubled and reclusive, not cheerful and outgoing. "It's fine, honest." He resisted the temptation to reach up and rub the new sore spot on the back of his head, forcing a smile on his face instead. "I guess you could say this is the story of how the three mutton heads almost broke the world. Several times. Uh, after you said adios in your incredibly unique manner, Dean didn't watch porn for two weeks." There was an "Mhm" from the front of the car, and Gabriel couldn't help the small smile that grew, filing it under 'Success' in his mind.

"We tried to find another way, but, in the end, Luci- He was right. It happened in Detroit. I said yes, crazy-ass plan in mind, which didn't work fantastically well at first. But I managed to mind wrestle him into submission, and jumped us both into the pit. With Michael. Who had taken our revived half-brother as his vessel instead. And Cas died again," Dean's breathing hitched, "But came back, restored to normal again. Crowley-"

"Crowley?" Gabriel interjected, a puzzled look on his face.

"Yeah, Crowley. You know him?"

"No, no, sorry. Just reminds me of an angel I knew a while back. Crawly. He was a nice kid, and that other angel that he hung round with, albeit nerdy, wasn't bad either. Aziraphale, I think. They were practically inseparable. Last I heard, Crawly was fallen." Sam tilted his head slightly, observing the way Gabriel looked blankly onwards, reminiscing about days long past. He had to physically force back the genuine smile that threatened to emerge at the realization that he'd actually distracted the archangel. It didn't last long though, and honey-coloured eyes found their way back to reality, sinking as they realized that the memory was just that. A memory. "Sorry... I didn't mean to interrupt. Carry on Sam," he said, disheartened.

"It's fine Gabe, honest." Sam offered up a grin, but the archangel looked as sullen as before. "Who knows, maybe Crawly and Crowley are the same demon, fallen angel, person, whatever," Sam mused with a forced chuckle. "Anyway, yeah, Crowley had been quite helpful up until then, but he owned Bobby's soul. Managed to get it back off him, though. After the Apocalypse, I was separated from me. If that makes any sense. My soul stuck around downstairs for a while, whilst my physical body wandered about topside, soulless and apparently a complete dick. Soulless me worked for Crowley, catching alphas, whilst soul me kept your brothers company. Lovely people if you get past the clear issues they both have," Sam tagged on the end sarcastically, and Dean winced slightly, knowing when he'd been in Hell, well, that was Hell. There was no other way to describe it. But compared to what Sam had had, he may as well have had an all-inclusive 40 year holiday to Disney Land Florida. With unlimited episodes of Doctor Sexy, MD and a lifetime supply of apple pie. Gabriel felt guilty, as if somehow, in some obscure way, if he'd of done things differently, handled the situation with Lucifer differently, he might've been able to stop it. Just another thing to add to the list of 'Things Gabriel could've prevented but didn't because of his self-centered stupidity' then.

"Death was the one to re-unite my soul and body after a year and a half Earth time, too many years to count Hell time. But I didn't remember any of Hell or my soulless escapades at first: Death put up a wall between me and those memories. Apparently, I could've died knowing them. Shame the wall was a load of crap. Didn't take long until the dam sprung a leak." He snorted derisively, not for Gabriel or Dean, but for himself. He knew it was partly his own fault: he'd poked and prodded at the wall against all of Dean's protests. They always did say curiosity killed the cat.

Sam continued to take his walk up Memory Lane, explaining one stride after another to Gabriel, but skirting over the issues with Cas rather quickly, not sure as to how Dean would react. Gabriel watched with growing interest, grimacing at times (Godstiel; The release of the Leviathans; Castiel and Dean's trip to Purgatory), but the pain seemed to evaporate from eyes, pushing back the fear and hurt Sam had first encountered temporarily. Once or twice he even laughed, a genuine, almost care-free laugh, and it warmed the tattered remains of Sam's soul, even if it was at his and Dean's expense (the time they hunted the Unicorn, and the time they were sent into an alternate universe).

"Balthazar was always a good kid. Knew how to have a laugh. How is he now?" Sam's fake smile faltered a little, the emotions behind the façade pushing through. Gabriel parted his chapped lips slightly, a sound somewhat akin to a whimper leaving them. "Oh." A pregnant pause filled the air, broken by a sigh. "I never hated Dad before, you know? He always had his reasons for what he did, no matter how mysterious and messed up they may be. Making two of the closest things he had to sons fight? Sure, why the heck not?! But I actually, physically hate him now, Sam," the younger hunter sucked in his lips slightly as tears brimmed in the archangel's eyes. "He could've stopped all this: The Apocalypse; all the death; Mikey and Luci fighting. But he didn't. Chance are, he kicked his fucking feet up and sat back with a bag of popcorn, watching his 'divine plan' unravel."

He took a breath, and continued: "Sorry kiddo, but the one thing you guys ever showed was that family was all you could count on, and I've got one response: bullshit." Castiel, awoken from Gabriel's outburst, looked away from the archangel, hurt. Dean put a hand on his shoulder, taking a moment to look from the road to him.

"Family doesn't mean blood, Gabriel. If your real family is made of a bunch of dicks, or if it just isn't there, you make your own family. Castiel," he nodded in the angel's direction, who had turned to face them again, "might not be blood, but he's sure as hell family to us now. I couldn't imagine life without our friendly neighbourhood angel, if I'm honest. Bobby was a far better father to us than our real dad ever was. Crowley, in some messed up way, is like the crazy estranged uncle. He brought Bobby back for us, and as much as I hate him for what he did before, he gave us something so important back. Ellen was the step-mother in our screwed up little-but-seriously-not-little family; Jo was a sister to us. Rufus was the grandfather who was completely off his rocker, but in a good way. You make your own family, Gabe." Sam watched as the scowl dissipated, and added as an afterthought: "I'm sure Dean and Cas will be looking for a son to adopt soon!"

Cas blushed like a teenage girl asking out her crush; Dean yelled out a string of curses and profanities, Cas trying to remind him to focus on the road in hushed tones; Sam grinned, proud of himself and his new-found ability at finding quick remarks; Gabriel laughed, mainly at the reactions, but considered the possibility. As dysfunctional a family as they were, it was a nice thought to have a family that actually cared about him, and wouldn't try to kill him – a painful reminder that both his real family and his strung together family of pagan gods tried to kill him last time he saw them.

The rest of the journey passed in relative quiet. It took but 5 minutes for the effects of Sam's distractions to fade, the memories, the emotions pushing their way to the forefront of Gabriel's mind. He bit down on his bottom lip and pulled his wings around him best as he could, hiding away from the world. The Messenger wasn't stupid: he knew his wings would make no difference to anyone but Castiel, but to control them once again, to be able to hide behind them, it made a difference to him. He pretended to fall asleep, ignoring the concerned glances thrown at him by the taller man, convinced that he didn't deserve pity. Heck, if he was honest with himself, he didn't deserve anything except to be back where they found him. Gabriel knew he'd pulled shit in his time on Earth: he deserved to be punished. His very own just dessert. It was so poetic and right and he knew he deserved his wings to broken into the tatters they were, not the sympathy and hospitality he was receiving from two past victims of, well, Gabriel.

* * *

Bobby sat on the porch of Singer Salvage Yard, a hand running over the all too familiar arch of the wheelchair. It wasn't like he could actually blame Crowley for this one: the demon had brought him back from the dead, which the hunter was more than grateful for. It just so happened that his body was 'system-restored' to the last time Crowley had possession of his soul, aka the time he was in the wheelchair and the evil son-of-a-bitch had added a sub clause to his deal. He could've always kissed ass to see if Crowley could re-implement that part of the deal somehow, but one thing Bobby Singer did not do was kiss ass. And so it was settled.

Bobby Singer was wheelchair bound again.

His arms ached from rushing around, trying to clear the living room out and convert into some form of angel treatment room. Only problem was he had no idea what the fuck an angel treatment room was like, and that was presuming that archangels were biologically similar to angels, which he personally thought to be a safe presumption to make. Of course, they had to be slightly more complicated anatomically, with the whole supporting more sets of wings than angels, but it couldn't be too much more complicated.

In a nutshell, he'd cleared a large space in the middle of the living room, shifting the stacks of books, and after much problem solving, the coffee table and sofa. Lay out on the floor was a blanket, beside which he'd put bandages, alcohol, a needle and thread. Oh, and some lukewarm water which he'd probably have to redo with how long they were taking. He sighed, and glanced down at his watch, before gazing longingly back into the darkness, waiting for the tell-tale headlights and the sound of the Impala's engine growling.

Bobby muttered "Idjits" under his breath, shivering slightly in the nippy night air. He was about to turn and wait for them inside when two lights cut through the night, and the hum of the trusty Impala sounded out. The car pulled into view, and the engine cut off, Dean getting out first with Cas following suit. Bobby began to smile, until he saw Castiel stumble, and Dean rush around to support his weight, pulling the angel's arm around his shoulders. Sam was the next to climb out of the car, Bobby noticing that he never looked away from the fourth passenger, who honestly, looked like he'd been dragged to Hell and back. Several times over.

Gabriel mimicked Castiel's position, throwing his arm over Sam's shoulders, wincing slightly. Sam looked at him as if he'd just grown an extra head. "Are you being serious, Gabriel?"

"What?" the archangel frowned, pouting slightly. Sam lifted his eyebrow as Gabriel wobbled on his feet despite the support from the hunter. "I'm an archangel, not an invalid."

"You're also too stubborn for your own good," Sam replied, lifting the short angel into a bridal hold, ignoring the dramatic "Watch out for my wings!", complete with flailing arms, which probably wasn't the smartest move, as it was swiftly followed by groans and whines.

Bobby sighed, shaking his head. He saw through the both of them: Gabriel and Sam. It didn't take a genius to notice the way Sam plastered a smile on his face around the archangel, hoping it would catch on and restore some of the light to Gabriel's: nor did it take a genius to see how Gabriel forced his typical dramatics, hiding the psychological damage underneath layers of carefully crafted lies and behaviourisms, and chances were, once someone managed to find a loose thread and unravel the cocoon of protection, it would be far worse than what they imagined, far deeper than they thought.

Little did Bobby know, the thread that would unravel the mystery that was Gabriel was right in front of them. Sam.


	4. Leave Out All The Rest

**A/N**  
**Here is the next chapter, just for you guys. Sorry about it taking forever to be uploaded, I've had a bit of stressful week. Still torn between whether to keep it as Crowley/Bobby and introduce Aziraphale as a side character, or to have Bobby/Ellen and Crowley/Aziraphale, but I shall decide soon, and ti those of you who don't know who Zira is, don't worry, I'll explain all the pints you need to know. So yeah, sorry for the wait, and thank you to my lovely beta Ashlee again, you're super awesome girl!**

"Gabriel, please, hold still! You need stitches or this," he gestured to the gash on the archangel's torso, "isn't going to heal properly." Sam towered over the cross-legged Messenger, despite only kneeling. His thighs had begun to burn though, as he'd been kneeling for what seemed like hours, needle and thread in hand, trapped in a circular argument with Gabriel.

"Seriously kiddo, I think you're just coming up with excuses to get your hands on me. I know I'm irresistible and all, but this damsel in distress needs to rest before she gets it on with the moose in shining armour." Sam, by this point, had decided hitting his head against a wall would be more productive. "You did only come to my rescue an hour ago, Sammy." Had he been less exhausted, and not on a seemingly impossible mission to patch up Gabriel, Sam would've flustered. Probably.

"Can't you just be serious for a moment, Gabriel? I don't know how much mojo you've got, but I don't want to take chances. That could get infected if not sorted, so let me put some stitches in, then rest." The archangel bit his lip at Sam's retort and waggled his eyebrows, somewhat akin to the Dr Sexy, MD sequence in TV Land. Sam groaned and mentally prepared himself for the onslaught of innuendos.

"You're quite the dominatrix, aren't you Sammy?" Gabriel grinned as Sam rolled his eyes, letting his tongue and brain slip back into the Trickster façade. "Bet it gets kinky with you in the bedroom, right? Might have to try you out one day myself," the Messenger practically purred, winking at the hunter, who had, finally, broke out into a blush.

"Seriously, Gabe?!" Sam tried, and failed, to keep his composure, his voice jumping up a few octaves into what Dean dubbed the 'Justin Bieber' range. "First, isn't a dominatrix female-"

"So you know about BDSM and all that then? But Sammy, really? Didn't Daddy ever tell you that you could be whatever you wanted to be?" The look of utter horror on Sam's face amused the archangel to no end – just because he was psychologically seven shades of screwed up, didn't mean he'd forgotten how to smile.

Sam stared wide-eyed at Gabriel, his mouth opening and closing several times, as if he was imitating a fish. His face had managed a new level of red that was previously unknown to mankind. In the end, once his mind had cleared itself of some very wrong – albeit hot – ideas, only one word would allow itself to be spoken:

"Gabriel!"

Bobby sighed, his chest rising and falling being the only movement he made, sat on the other side of the door. He knew what Gabriel was doing: twisting the conversation topic with the gift of the gab. He cast one more longing look in the direction of the voices – of course he couldn't actually see them – and wheeled his way outside onto the porch, arms heavy, just looking. Looking out across his grounds, all the scrap cars piled atop one another, rusty and wrecked. Looking at the night sky, dotted with countless stars. It was the small things Bobby appreciated in life, and despite stars not really actually being a small thing, they were to him in the sense that they weren't a major part of his life. They weren't anything he could reel off countless facts about like the supernatural: they were just there to be admired, to lose yourself in. The thing he loved most about just looking at the stars was that he didn't know anything about them. That they, to him, were still shrouded in mystery and it made him feel like someone normal, even just for a while, because he didn't know. He wasn't privy to some knowledge that almost all of the population weren't. He was just normal old Bobby Singer.

Except it was never really that easy. Normal old Bobby Singer died the day Karen Singer died. And so his shoulders slumped slightly in defeat, old mind far too keen to be fooled into thinking it was normal by some stars.

With the little time he had alone, and his eyelids growing in weight, Bobby thought about just what a situation he'd landed himself in this time. Angels, he'd grown used to. He knew most all there was to glean about angels from lore, biblical and mythological, and had his own general definition of them too: dick. Of course, there were exceptions to the definition, like Castiel, and Bobby supposed at a push, he could put Balthazar under the exceptions column. He had died trying to help them, after all.

But never before had he met an archangel, so Bobby wasn't quite sure what to expect from Gabriel. Except, he kind of had met an archangel before, under the guise of a Pagan god. In his own defense, Bobby would've still vehemently denied the existence of angels back then, and the Messenger had pulled of the façade flawlessly. Maybe because personality wise, Gabriel and a Trickster were so alike, they may as well have been the same thing. The old hunter chuckled slightly to himself at the memory of that specific hunt. The boys had been bickering like, for lack of a better descriptor, a married couple. It was at that point it struck him that maybe it'd be a wise idea to apologize in his involvement in the stabbing of the archangel back then. Bobby decided if the opportunity arose, he would. Better to be safe than sorry.

He continued to think, reliving the best of his memories and avoiding the bitter ones like the plague. The only problem with that was that his good memory pile was pitiable in comparison to his bad memory pile. Bobby paid no heed to the cold gust that nipped around his ankles, lost too far into his own world.

"Mind if I join you out here, Robert? Poison of your choice," said a voice from behind him, the signature Scottish accent pulling Bobby out of his own thoughts. He twisted to find Crowley stood behind him, clad in his usual dark attire, looking out at the night sky.

"Just call me Bobby. Everyone else does. And whip us up one of those fancy old whiskeys I know you carry with ya everywhere, Crowley." The demon smirked slightly, a bottle appearing in his hand. He twisted the bottle top off, dropping it on to the floor, where it disappeared upon hitting the porch. Crowley poured out a glass for Bobby first, handing him the shot glass, watching as the hunter took it all down in swallow, then filled his own glass, sitting down on a chair next to the old hunter which hadn't been there before.

"I'd never put you down as a stargazer, Bobby. Seems a little laid back for someone with such a busy life."

Bobby snorted slightly, turning to Crowley. "That's exactly why I like to come out here sometimes, ya know? Get away from everything. Speaking of which, what're you doing here?" The hunter had become a fair bit more tolerable of the demon's presence after finding out that Crowley had pulled his soul from Hell, no strings attached. Why still puzzled him, but he was appreciative, none the less.

"Ironically enough, Hell appears to have descended into anarchy. Doesn't sound like much: Hell generally is anarchy. But the amount of demons rebelling at the moment. King of Hell is far more stressful than what it sounds… If you ever get offered the title, Bobby, turn it down. It isn't worth it." Crowley pulled another shot from his glass, hissing slightly as it burned down the back of his throat, but the blurring effect it had was worth any amount of burn. Everyone had something they wanted to forget or leave behind: for Crowley, that just so happened to be most all of his past.

"I'll keep that in mind," Bobby replied sarcastically, lifting his hand as he realized his glass was full again. The King Of Hell laughed bitterly.

"I take it you've got guests, old man," he pointed out, twisting the topic. "I can feel them. Who exactly?"

"The usual. Sam, Dean and Castiel." Bobby hesitated before continuing, making the addition appear to be an afterthought. "And an archangel."

Crowley quirked his eyebrows. "Archangel." He said thoughtfully, pulling something akin to Sam's thinking face, which was rather like a mild bitchface. "I thought they were all extinct."

"You've got two in Hell with you," Bobby pointed out. Crowley pursed his lips slightly, frowning at being caught out.

"Doesn't count," was his retort, and Bobby "Hmph"'d at him, falling back into a mutual silence between them. It wasn't an awkward silence, so to say, but more of a 'I have nothing more to say that might be of interest to you' kind of silence. It gave Bobby the chance to think about how he actually felt comfortable in the presence of a not just a demon, but a 'King of Hell' level demon, and how he'd even go as far as saying Crowley's company made him happy. There weren't an awful lot of people, much less supernatural beings, that he could just talk openly with, that he could trust to that extent, and through Bobby's method of thinking, Crowley had earned that respect through not only giving him the ability to use his legs back before they confronted Lucifer, but bringing him back to life, albeit back in a physical state he hated.

They sat there for what seemed like hours, just looking up at the night sky, until Bobby finally drifted off into a dream. Crowley made sure it wasn't a nightmare. The demon contemplated just leaving, returning to deal with Hell, but he couldn't. Contrary to popular belief, he wasn't heartless – well, actually, he was, but metaphorically speaking, Crowley had a heart – and before he left, materialized a blanket which he wrapped around the old hunter. An old friend had told him that deep down inside him, there was a spark of goodness inside him. Right now, that spark of goodness was glowing and growing. Why, exactly? Well, that's ineffable to even the most knowledgeable.

* * *

Sam was more than certain that several capillaries had burst inside his cheeks, as the red flush just wouldn't go down after the archangel had decided to open his mouth. Pushing the various crude remarks to the back of his mind, the hunter decided to try on his very own mission impossible once more. "Gabe, seriously, please just let me help." It was all in vain though, as apparently, Gabriel had gone from sex expert to five-year-old. At least, that was Sam's conclusion as he was pouted at, the Messenger pulling off puppy eyes which had very been clearly been perfected over many years.

Sam opened his mouth to protest, when Gabriel's eyes got wider still, his pout pout-ier, and the hunter succumbed. "Fine, just, at least zap yourself up a shirt or something." The pout faltered, and Sam felt his stomach twist at the flash of sadness across toffee coloured eyes.

"I can't," was the simple answer he got, and despite his pressing curiosity, the hunter didn't ask why. It wasn't his place to ask why. Not yet, anyway. And so he let his brain act on instinct, and unbuttoned his plaid shirt, not noticing Gabriel's gaze fall across his chest momentarily. It was bloodied in some areas, yes, but it was better than nothing, and he justified it with "I have more upstairs, honest," at the confused, but thankful looks he received. Sam gave it to the archangel, who took it from him tentatively, eyes never leaving his.

The archangel shrugged it onto his shoulders with a barely suppressed groan, buttoning up the plaid shirt with fingers Sam hadn't noticed were shaking before. It swamped his petite frame more than Sam would've liked it to, emphasising just how much weight the archangel had lost. Well, just how much the vessel had lost: whether archangels themselves could lose weight or not was another topic.

"Thank you, Sam. For everything. I mean it." Sam smiled sympathetically at Gabriel, the hunter unaware that he was the first in a long time to see Gabriel's vulnerable side.

"It's nothing, Gabe, really. Just, try and get some rest, okay? And don't give me the 'Angels don't need sleep' bullshit Cas uses. You might not need it, but it helps." Gabriel nodded, pushing himself up to his feet with stumble. Sam wrapped his arm around the archangel's waist, supporting the majority of his weight as the Trickster lay down on the sofa, his wings sprawled across the back of the sofa and the floor. He winced as they shifted slightly, a slight hiss prompting a concerned look from Sam, but nothing was said.

"Just shout if you need me, okay?" Gabriel nodded, pulling the blankets up over himself. "Are you sure you'll be alright?" Sam asked, his mother hen trait kicking in as concern dominated his thoughts.

"I'll be fine, Sam. I'm an archangel, remember? We're pretty hardy creatures." Sam smirked weakly, before nodding, turning around to walk out the room.

"Goodnight, Gabriel," he murmured, quiet enough to ensure the Messenger didn't hear him.

But he did, and under his breath, Gabriel mumbled "Night, Sam," but the hunter didn't hear him, and simply left the living room, flipping the light switch and closing the door behind him. Gabriel smiled, his throat tightening at the feeling of safety for the first time in God knows how long- years, maybe. It was a nice feeling, one he'd forgotten after being brought back.

It was a bitter smile though. He knew he'd never actually be safe - he was a bloody archangel who had no control over his own grace, which was the equivalent of putting a neon sign on his head which read 'Powerless. Come get revenge." - and as long as he stayed around Sam, Cas, Bobby and Dean, they weren't safe either.

He lay there for a while on his back, eyes tracing across the cracks in the ceiling as the hours crawled by. How badly he wanted to be able to channel grace through his wings, to heal the cracks in the bone, the tears in the membrane. Yet no matter how much Gabriel strained to manipulate his grace, nothing.

The fact that he was now useless cemented his conclusion - that he was a threat to the well being of those around him - further, as he, the Messenger, couldn't even defend those around him should the opportunity arise in which he needed to. Which knowing Gabriel's current luck, probably would.

The archangel pushed himself up onto wobbly feet, steely in his resolve to put as much distance between him and the Winchesters - yes, in his mind, Bobby and Castiel were now classed as Winchesters - as possible. He stumbled a few times, even tripping over one of his limp wings once, before still jittery digits wrapped around the door handle, and he pushed it down with a sharp intake of breath as an aching pain shot up his muscles.

The door swung open with a whine - one that could be dealt with with oil - and Gabriel hadn't taken more than one step before he registered the feeling of being watched. He knew who it was, and sighed inwardly as the young hunter stood to his full height beside the archangel, still bare-chested.

"Where are you going, Gabriel?" The archangel continued looking straight ahead, refusing to look Sam in the eye.

"For a walk." There was a pause as Gabriel shuffled his feet slightly, feeling uneasy under the hunter's glare.

"Did you plan on coming back?"

Gabriel paused again, unsure as to whether to give Sam the answer he wanted, or the answer he expected. "No," he said in the end, deciding against lying. It wasn't going to get him anywhere fast, and chances were the Winchester would see through them.

Sam sighed: he'd expected that. The amount of times over his years as a hunter he'd seen someone pull/try to pull the same stunt were uncountable. It was why he'd decided to bunk outside the living room, incase the archangel tried to run.

"Why won't you let us help you, Gabriel? Why won't you let me help you?" Gabriel choked out a sadistic laugh, still not looking at the hunter beside him.

"Because," he said, straining to filter some of the pain out of his tone, "there's nothing left to help, kid. You arrived far too late for that."

Sam grimaced, his hand twitching to offer some form of comfort, but it stayed by his side. "Just because you're broken, Gabe, doesn't mean you can't be fixed. Just let me try. Please."

"Don't you get it Sam? You'd be wasting your time! I'm not just talking about mentally here, I'm actually broken! And I'm a danger to be around!" At the questioning look he got, Gabriel continued. "There's grace inside me, built up, and I have no control over it whatsoever. I am an angelic time bomb, a walking heavenly kaboom-"

"I'll take the risk," Sam interjected.

"-And there's bound to be a price on my head. As in, archangels don't just escape, Sam. If I'm out, it's for a reason, and chances are it means anyone around me is in danger." Sam shook his head, incredulity etched onto his face.

"You just don't get it, do you? We took on Azazel and Lilith, Eve and Godstiel, Dick and his Leviathans, and mister big bad himself, Lucifer. No matter what life can throw at us, we can conquer it. Me and Dean, and now Cas and Bobby have prove that." His hand came to rest upon Gabriel's shoulder, and the archangel looked at Sam, meeting his eyes for the first time that conversation. "So I'm not just asking you anymore Gabriel, I'm begging you. Let us help you. Please."

The archangel recoiled slightly: whether it was the words, the genuine care behind them or the strong grasp that pulled him into an embrace, he didn't know. The Messenger lifted his hand, wiping at a warm spot on his cheek to find it was a lone tear, and let his head drop against the firm chest, the warmth of Sam's body so welcoming and calming.

It was rather the sight to see. If you looked at it from human eyes, you saw a tall, semi-naked man cradling another smaller, in-a-plaid-shirt-that-was-far-too-big man in his arms. It was quite sweet really, until you noticed the tiny details, like the bandages around the smaller one and the way he held his back awkward, or the way the taller one held him like one would a child, but looked him like a lover. Then it moved past sweet.

If you looked at it from an angel's eyes, you saw the same scene, expect for the addition of six tarnished, but still rather beautiful golden wings. Two lay limp on the floor explaining the smaller man's awkward posture, but the four that he could move, even with great pain, curled protectively around the taller man, almost hiding him from view under a barrage of blood tainted feathers. And in this slightly altered version, it was the smaller man who seemed more protective, not the taller.


	5. Shattered

**A/N**

**Im incredibly sorry about how long this took, I've just been under a lot of stress lately with school work and exams and the theatre academy, ect. So yeah, I apologise so much.**

**Just a reminder, reviews mean the world to me, they make me want to write even more for you guys, no matter what language they're in.**

"I thought you were dead." Crowley felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as he spoke. He didn't even need to turn around to know who stood behind him, so he continued to swill the alcohol around his glass, whiskey splashing up against his fingers.

"Aren't you even going to grant me the courtesy of looking at me, Crowley?" hissed the other demon. Crowley's lips pulled back into a snarl momentarily before he pushed himself out of the vintage leather armchair he so liked to perch in when he thought. He took a moment to gather his composure, taking a deep breath, then twisted towards the grinning demon.

"You deserve no such courtesy, scum," Crowley spat out, taking a shot from his glass as his pupils flickered between the usual circular shapes and snake slits.

"Are you still bitter, Crowley? I never took you as the sentimental type," the other leered back, stepping forward until he and Crowley were inches apart.

"Shut up," he growled, his teeth gritted together. The shot glass smashed in his hand, blood running down his fingers and pooling into little droplet splatters against the cream carpet. His fingers curled into fists, despite the glass between them biting deeper into his meat suit.

"Do you remember it Crowley? As I drove the blade through his heart? Do you remember the look on his face, as you were so close saving him? As the hope was torn from him?" The vein in

Crowley's neck was throbbing now, as his face reddened.

"I said SHUT UP YOU BASTARD!" The other demon flinched slightly as Crowley snapped and shoved him roughly into the wall, hand clamping around his throat and lifting him up the wall, Crowley's blood smeared across the bare flesh on his neck.

"You're the scum Crowley, for fucking an angel. A demon fucking an angel. Disgusting. I just did you a favour." Crowley tightened his grip on the demon's neck, pulling a splutter from his throat. "But that's the thing. You're not a real demon, are you Crowley? You're a fake," he choked out, voice weak. "You're even more repulsive than that bumbling fool I killed."

"Hastur, so help me, if you don't shut your mouth you will learn Hell hath no fury compared to me. Don't fear Lucifer. Don't fear God. Fear me, because trust me, I will take so much pleasure from hearing you scream out in pain for the rest of eternity. I will tear you apart in ways they never taught you at torture school, and you will beg me to stop. You will beg for mercy, and I will have none for the likes of you." The other demon, Hastur, grinned manically, realizing he was breaking through now, really hitting Crowley where it hurt.

"All this because of an angel, Crowley?"

"All this because of MY angel, Hastur," Crowley hissed back, his serpentine traits playing through. His eyes at this point were no longer recognisably human.

"You should've stayed in la-la land, freak," Hastur retorted, his face twisting into one of sadistic glee.

"You should've stayed in Hell, away from me if you knew what was right for you Hastur." The aforementioned demon snorted, then spat at Crowley, his one lip pulling up into a snarl.

"Did you hear the way he screamed out as I stabbed him Crowley? Does it still haunt your dreams, that memory playing over and over again?" Crowley wouldn't admit it to Hastur, but it did: it was the worst moment of his existence. "It was the best day of my life."

"You're a ssssick bassstard and I'll tear you limb from limb," Crowley snarled, the hiss he thought he'd supressed long ago running prevalent through his speech. It worked to his advantage, though, as it had always served to spooking Hastur.

"Aziraphale was pathetic." Hastur sneered back, his grin growing. He took pleasure from rubbing salt in the wound that had never healed.

"Aziraphale was mine, you scum. I don't expect a lowly demon like you to ever understand the ssignificance of that," Crowley tried to compose himself and supress the hissing, but in his current emotional state with the demon he despised most in front taunting him, it was easier said than done. Hastur laughed sadistically, the teeth of his vessel yellow-tainted and bared, greasy brown hair falling over the one of his eyes. Crowley stopped acting reasonably and snapped the neck of the demon with his hand, nails digging into the wrinkled flesh. Hastur just laughed even more, his cackle bitter and harsh. "Why are you even here, Hassstur, except for the obvious you have a death wish?"

"I'm here to pass along a message, traitor. You're not the only angel playing in this sandpit anymore, Crowley." The demon smirked before the jaw of his vessel opened further than anatomically possible, the bones snapping as black smoke started to pour out. Crowley cursed and with all the strength he could muster, grace he hadn't felt in a long time flooding through his veins, pushed the smoke back into the body, until Hastur was fully back inside his broken body.

"Not so fasst, Hasstur, we've only just started chatting." It was Crowley's turn to grin as a flash of fear crossed the demon's face. His tone was composed purely of condescension and raw, unfiltered anger. A forked tongue flicked out from between his lips, curling slightly before retracting. "You know, haven't ssseen you in a long time, old friend. We've got some catching up to do like, sssay, how you're alive now and who you're working for."

* * *

Dean was awoken by a rather loud thump at the foot of his bed. Instinct and experience wrapped his hand around the revolver under his pillow, and he lifted it up, both hands poised on the grip, thumb hovering over the safety. He was onto his feet in no time, circling around to where he heard the disturbance with his back slightly arched. A leg, bent rather awkwardly, protruded from the end of the bed, and Dean lowered his gun, head cocked to the side.

"Cas? What the hell?" He stood for a moment, waiting for some confused reaction, but when the angel didn't even stir, the gun now hanging loosely from Dean's left hand fell to the floor with a clatter. The hunter dropped to his knees and pulled the trench coat clad angel into his arms, Castiel's body falling limp against Dean.

"Dammit Cas, talk to me! Do something!" Dean's voice was increasing in both volume and pitch as he started to panic, and hoisted the unconscious angel into a bridal hold. It only worried the hunter even more as he felt how cold Castiel was. "Sam! Get your ass up here now!" He hit the door side on, knocking it on, light casting shadows over Cas' pale face. Dean winced as his eyes fell on pale lips and sunken eyes, sweat glistening thick and heavy on his skin. Dark locks clung to his forehead, damp and sticky.

"Now, Sam, god dam-"

"What is-" Sam cut himself as he almost charged into Dean, glancing down at Castiel. The brothers shared a moment of silent 'What the actual fuck do we do here, oh god, how do you treat a sick angel?' eye conversing, before Sam helped his brother carry Cas down the stairs, spreading the weight between the two of them. "What happened?"

"He just collapsed, I think! I wasn't awake, I just heard a bang and found him like this," Dean said, supporting the upper half of Cas' body as they half carried, half dragged him into the living room, where an archangel clad in a far too big plaid shirt was perched on the edge of the sofa, fingers curling as he saw the reason for the comeuppance.

"Put him on the sofa," Gabriel commanded, blunt and frankly intimidating, his small frame somehow seeming larger than Sam as he slipped back into a role he'd played so many times back up in Heaven, ordering the seraphs and cherubs about, leading the soldiers of Heaven into battle. He didn't even notice it, the sudden change in persona: Sam did, as his voice hinted at something more than just a human, something older than time itself.

Neither of them where a fool though to argue with an archangel, and did as told once Gabriel had half-limped, half-shuffled out the way. Dean's eyes never left Castiel as the Messenger pressed two fingers against the younger angel's forehead, and with the other hand, reached inside Castiel. The angel convulsed, moaning out in pain, and Sam had to hold Dean back from pulling Gabriel away despite knowing the level of pain Cas was experiencing.

"Hush, Castiel," Gabriel murmured, a song-like sequence of Enochian, Latin and some other languages neither Dean nor Sam recognised falling out of his mouth. What was surprising was how Castiel calmed slightly, his writhing lessening. Heck, even Dean had stopped pulling as much at Sam's hold, and Sam's worries felt like a blur which didn't matter that much. Not at the moment, anyway.

The trance-like melody had lingered long after Gabriel had stopped singing it, its effects longer still. The Messenger pulled his hand out of Castiel, the fingers on his forehead lingering a little longer as the archangel smiled sympathetically at him, before turning to Sam. The younger hunter felt his stomach drop at the fear in Gabriel's eyes, and Dean didn't take much longer to cotton on. "What's wrong with him? I swear if you did anything, you dickhead, I will cut off your crown jewels right now."

"Do you think I'd harm my own brother, Dean?" Gabriel growled, venom lacing his voice.

Before Dean could even consider his response, he said: "Didn't stop you back in TV land."

The clap of thunder alerted the hunter of his foolish, and the ground began to shake. Old beer bottles smashed against the floor, littering the ground with broken glass. Lightning struck, casting shadows of Gabriel's four outstretched wings against the walls, far larger than what Dean remembered Castiel's wings to be, and still not fully opened in the small room. Utter fear ran through him, twisting his stomach into knots as throughout the whole display, the archangel's eyes, furious and burning with all his many millennia of pent up anger, never left his own.

Sam, however, wasn't intimidated, as his focus never left the shadows of Gabriel's wings cast against the wall, how they were angled unnaturally, crooked with more bends than Sam remembered seeing in Cas'. He was transfixed, almost reaching out to thin air, when he realised why his wings looked so abnormal: they were broken.

Sam gasped, his stomach twisting as his mind presented him with various images of once grand wings mangled and broken. "Gabriel, your wi-" he started, but his concern went unnoticed as the archangel cut him off.

"Do you truly think I would let harm come to Castiel? I raised him, along with the rest of his garrison, as if they were my own!" There was something to his voice, a vicious, ancient undertone, all the windows smashing as his true voice pushed its way through. Thunder clapped again, and Sam had actually begun to fear for both his and Dean's safety, with his brother being the target of the wrath of an archangel. Gabriel was fixated upon the one he'd instinctively deemed his foe now though, and took no note of Sam's alarmed expressions, his mind devoid of everything barring his duty to bring justice and right the wrong. "I told you before Dean, never presume to know what or who I am."

Lightning struck again, illuminating the room, feather tips flared out in anger as wings painfully pressed against walls and the ceiling, Gabriel making himself as large as possible to intimidate Dean. "I am not the reason for Castiel's condition," spoke a voice, manipulated by anger and completely unrecognisable. The eyes of the archangel were flushed golden, no pupil or white left.

"Shit, Dean, fucking do something before he loses it," Sam susurrated, arching his back slightly.

"What the fuck do I say, Sam?"

Sam hesitated for a moment, knowing that his brother likely wouldn't take his advice, but decided he had nothing to lose. "Apologise."

"You want me to apologise to that dick?!" Dean furrowed his brow, looking incredulously at Sam as if he'd just grown another head. But he definitely didn't cast a worried sideward glance at the glowering archangel. "Dean Winchester does not apologise."

"Well Dean Winchester needs to put aside his manly pride for a moment and grow a pair." Dean frowned at Sam, an opened his mouth to protest again, when the floor shook again and he found himself making a painful acquaintance with the ground.

"Alright, alright," he said to Sam, pushing himself up with a bitchface, before turning to the archangel. "Gabriel, I'm sorry, that was wrong of me to accuse you of hurting Cas." He turned back to Sam, frowning at him. "Can I have my manly pride back now?"

Sam ignored his brother, focused on the archangel. "Gabriel!" He shouted out, trying to make himself heard over the wind and rain. The younger hunter, without considering what he was doing, grabbed at Gabriel's hand. He was taken by surprise when the archangel, eyes still golden, winced at the contact, his face contorting in pain. "Gabriel?"

He was met with a glare at first as the archangel tried to pull away from the contact, completely out of touch with reality, but Gabriel's expression softened upon seeing Sam. He gritted his teeth, barely suppressed hisses forcing their way past the imposed barrier.

"Get out... Sam... I can't hold... on..." he forced out between raspy, shallow breaths, his chest rising and falling erratically.

"What's going on? Are you alright? Gabriel, talk to me!" Sam was more than a little worried as the grip on his hand tightened, bones close to snapping under the pressure being exerted onto them.

"Grace... time bomb... remember? Dean lit... the bomb... Ge- Get CaaARGH!" Gabriel threw his head back, an inhuman scream ripping through his throat. Sam's eyes were wide, his lips parted as his mouth hung open.

"Not without you, Gabriel. I know you, you can hold on. You can fight back!" his voice betrayed his words though, as Sam sounded strained and desperate at best.

"C-can't... Cas'll be alright... His grace... is the problem... Gone... Just get out... All of you... Please Sam..." Sam shook his head, hanging on to Gabriel's hand as if both their lives depended on it, which may well be the case. He felt a hand pulling on his shoulder, but shook his head.

"C'mon Sammy, we gotta get out."

"No," Sam protested, "You go. Take Cas and Bobby, I'm not leaving." Gabriel's body shook as he screamed out again, another clap of thunder sounding out, the rain lashing down harder than before.

"Get..." the archangel mumbled, brow creased, trying to compose himself as best he could. "Get OUT!" The undertone of his true voice pushed through the filters, and against his will, Sam's legs forced him to run away, glancing back to see the archangel fall to his knees, hands clutching at his hair.

He saw Dean stood out front, Cas over his shoulder, Bobby still groggy on the porch. Wrapped in a pink Disney princess blanket. Hey, just because Crowley had a spark of goodness in him, didn't mean he couldn't be cruel at the same time.

"C'mon, we'll take the Impala. Get as far away as we can, Sammy." Sam looked desperately to Dean, then Bobby, who was slightly more alert than before.

"We can't just leave him, Dean!" He replied, frantic as he kept looking back at the house. Dean grabbed his wrist and pulled on his arm, jerking him forward.

"We have to Sammy. You heard him, it's gonna be a massive grave explosion, and we have to get out of here." Dean rubbed a hand over his eyes wearily as Sam still glanced between him and the house. "Just, push Bobby."

"Either of you idjits mind telling why I have to evacuate MY house?" Bobby asked, glancing between the two of them for an answer.

"I'll explain in the car, Bobby," Dean replied, and they all ran.

* * *

Crowley watched as a few droplet of holy water ran down the needle of the syringe, before turning back to Hastur with a twisted grin on his lips.

"I learnt this little trick off a certain Dean Winchester, major game player." He shook his head slightly, eyes trailing down the silver slither as another droplet ran down out, and turned back to the demon, paralysed where he stood, partially by fear, partially by function manipulation by Crowley. "Now, you can talk, or we can carry this on all night, and all day. For as a long as I like, actually, for you, dear Hassstur." He grimaced as a hiss escaped his lips again, entirely accidental unlike earlier, where he'd used it for the fear factor.

"I'm a duke of Hell, Crowley. You can't do this," Hastur replied, a quiver in his voice. Crowley laughed and raised the needle, aimed at the heart.

"And I'm King of Hell, which means I outrank, darling. Sorry," he said nonchalantly, as if he were apologising for turning up late to a meeting. The silver needle pierced the skin of the demon's meat suit, and Hastur winced as it carried on digging into his flesh. Compared to the pain that followed though as holy water was forced into his veins, it was nothing. The demon cried out, and it was music to Crowley's ears.

"Can you feel your heart burn, Hastur? Can you feel it boil from the inside, tearing you apart?" Crowley sounded far too eager: more like a child promised candy than a fallen angel torturing a demon. But then again, Crowley had never fit into the social norm.

"S'nuthin. Carn feela thin," Hastur slurred, not sounding entirely convincing. Crowley grinned sadistically, and pulled out another syringe filled with holy water, flicking it with his forefinger.

"Would you like another shot then? It'd be too bad if you couldn't feel the effects." The demon was quick to shake his head, protesting and begging. A chair materialised behind Hastur. "You're rather pathetic, aren't you? I lost count of how many of these Alistair had, and he could still take more. Sit." A flick of his hand, and Hastur sat in the chair, his posture unnaturally straight. Crowley sat on top of him, straddling the demon as he traced a finger across Hastur's cheekbone, digging his nail in and dragging it across the expanse of the bone, creating a red gash.

"Ssspeak."

"You carn break me, Crowley," Hastur bit back, his eyes threatening to roll back. Crowley almost laughed at how pathetic an excuse of a demon the thing before him was. He cupped his hands around Hastur's face, and grinned toothily.

"Do make sure to tell me how this feels, dear. I'm experimenting." Crowley's fingers curled, nails prying underneath the flesh, peeling away at the skin ever so slightly. Hastur's mouth fell open, choked screams refusing to leave his lips. Red ran down Crowley's hands, and he tugged a little more, feeling Hastur jolt at the movement. It made him happy.

"Not enough, dear? I was hoping you'd ssscream a little for me," Crowley mocked, his words riddled with taunting, meaningless innuendos. Hastur himself had never been comfortable with the idea of anything other than a male and a female together, but Crowley, having started in Hell as a demon of temptation, was a little more… open-minded. "How about this, then?" He leant forward until his chest pressed against Hastur's torso, and smirked, fingers still entangled in flesh. Crowley shut his eyes, and did his best to remember the lessons from long ago, forcing what little spare grace he had outside of himself and into Hastur. His eyes lit up in delight as Hastur screamed, his head jerking backwards as the eyes of his vessel burnt.

Crowley retracted his presence, and gave Hastur a moment to recover himself, before tilting his head, and commanding once again: "Speak."

What came from the demon was utter ineligible babble. Crowley groaned and rolled his eyes, pushing himself off of the Duke of Hell, pacing away with his back to the immobilized demon. He stood still for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fist, then twisted back to face Hastur, snarling. "Dammit, demon! Sstop babbling like the pathetic underling ssspawn you are and," he took a breath, "sspeak." He inwardly cursed as the 's' still had a pull on it.

"I dun… I dunknow anythin… It's anotha angel… I swear… I really dunknow his name…" Hastur forced out between gulps of air. Crowley unwound slightly at his little interrogation session finally getting somewhere.

"So how am I involved? Why, Hasstur, are you here now?" Hastur clenched his lips, aware he'd already said far too much. Crowley pursed his, and took a step closer to the demon. "Either way, Hassstur, you will die. Either I keep up this little session, then hunt you down and kill you after you deliver a message, or you comply and I hunt you down and kill you after you deliver a message. I suggest the latter," Crowley winked, then added as an afterthought, "It's less painful, darling."

It took but a moment for Hastur to open his mouth, out of fear of Crowley doing… whatever the hell it was he did earlier again. "He wants Hell… Not for power though… He wants the dead… I don't know why…"

"And I should be scared why? Many a demon and angel and whatever the hell else, no pun intended, have tried to get their filthy, nasty handsss or claws, or whatever they have on my throne. What makes him any different?" Hastur attempted to be resistant to the obvious fear Crowley now held over him, but when a tainted black blade slid between Crowley's fingers and tore through the muscle in his shoulder, going straight through Hastur's vessel, blood crowning it, he screamed out again and began to ramble on again.

"He... He broke the angel..." Hastur stuttered, then something seemed to click, or rather, crack inside of him. The deluded Duke of Hell grinned, blood stained teeth flashing. "Snap!" He suddenly shouted, eyes lighting up despite the pain from his raw throat. Had he the ability to move, Hastur would've made the gesture of breaking something. Crowley was more than certain he may have just sent a demon insane.

"Castiel was already broken you moron, so you can tell Mr Big to ssstop bragging about something he didn't do." Crowley twisted the blade in Hastur's shoulder, more for amusement than anything, and when Hastur howled out as what felt like barbed wire ripped through flesh and muscle, the world seemed a little brighter to Crowley.

"Not the harmless angel... The... The other one... The archangel... Broke his defences down..." Hastur grinned manically, and began to laugh, a sick twisted laugh, the type that children associated with murderous clowns who lurked in their nightmares. "His will to live... Gone... Like harnessing... Ten nuclear reactors..."

Crowley pulled his blade - it was too far corrupted to be called an angel blade - out of Hastur, and turned his back on the demon, hand running over the blood soaked length. He moved into his own little world, coming to terms with there being an angel - likely psychotic - hyped up on archangel juice who wanted his throne to Hell and Go-, Sata-, Lennon knows what. He decided there was only one word appropriate at the current point in time, and hissed under his breath "Bollocks."

He twirled the blade on the tip of his finger, not noticing when it pierced the skin of his own vessel, drawing a lone droplet of blood out. "The only reason you're leaving alive, demon ssscum, is because you're to deliver a message," Crowley said without even turning to look at Hastur, "Tell your boss boy to back off. And I promise you Hassstur, next time we meet, I will put you through something that doesn't even compare to Hell for what ssseems like eternity, and you will beg me to kill you, and eventually, after I have gotten sssick of the music of your pain, I will kill you, and I will ensure that you stay dead. Mark my wordss Hassstur, you will do best to hide, and even then, I will hunt you down and find you like the pathetic bassstard you are."

The King of Hell turned to look once more at the Duke, and it was almost as if Hastur was a bottle of pressurised gas, as the moment Crowley opened the lid on the demon's vessel, black smoke flooded out, clouding the room. To drive home just how deadly serious he was, Crowley cut through the smoke with his blade, slicing Hastur right down to the very essence of his being. The sound that followed was so unnatural and shrill, it was beautiful.

* * *

"Dean, please, turn around!" Sam pleaded as the accelerator pressed down further, the Impala speeding away in the opposite direction Sam wanted to be going on.

"I honestly don't think I can, Sammy. I don't know what Gabe did, but I can't defy his command. Fucking archangels." Bobby rolled his eyes, having only garnered a half-assed understanding of what was going on from Sam's desperate, rushed summary and Dean's guilt-ridden description of the situation. In a nutshell, there was an exploding archangel in his house. Fantastic.

"How's Cas doing, Sam?" Bobby asked, trying to change the topic. He knew a tense subject when he saw one.

"Same as before, I can't see any..." Sam trailed off, distracted, and Dean was about to ask what by, when Sam looked back to them, wide-eyed. "Look in the rear mirror, Dean." The elder Winchester did as told, Bobby twisting around to look out the back window.

Out in the distance behind them, was a white light, only dim and small to start with, but it grew and grew, becoming brighter and bigger and infinitely more beautiful until it swelled into a dome shape, god knows how big, growing blindingly bright to the point where none of the hunters could look directly at it, despite the overwhelming desire to, with how incredible and perfect it felt.

Then it contracted in size, the dome of light collapsing in on itself, and Dean, having found supernovae fascinating back when he went to school, knew what was coming next.

"GET DOWN!" he shouted out as loud as he could, the Impala screeching to a halt in the middle of the road. The explosion of pure brilliance he predicted followed, smashing the windows of his beloved car. It felt so warm and loving, that the elder Winchester was caught completely off guard as he began to rise slowly, an aftershock wave slamming his head down onto the dashboard, smearing his forehead with red.


End file.
